A Lily in Baker Street
by peoplewillsaywereinlove
Summary: After returning from the war, nurse Anne Watson tried to find meaning in her life again. Her plans at a simple life are soon begrudgingly forgotten when she meets Sherlock Holmes, her new flatmate in 221B Baker Street. If rooming with a male sociopath wasn't odd enough, Anne finds herself in a world of crime, death, and unexpectedly, love. (newFemale version of John & Sherlock).
1. Chapter 1

Hello readers! Thank you for stumbling upon my first Sherlock Fanfiction. I do love JohnLock, but I wanted to see how John would be as a woman (like in_ Elementary_), but in this case, she grows to appreciate and love Sherlock. This is based off the BBC version of _Sherlock_. Please review and let me know any feedback! I will be updating again soon. :)

All copyright to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the creators of BBC's _Sherlock_.

Thank you.

* * *

The coffee shop was small, but comfortable, giving off tranquil warmth to the passerby's in the streets. They could escape the endless London rain, and sip a cappuccino before heading to work. Anne Watson was in this coffee shop for different reasons, however. She wasn't waiting to go off to work, either. She was waiting for her friend, Elizabeth Hanks, to catch up a bit since the war.

The topic of war has strangely become just another topic of conversation with her only friend in London. It was like discussing fashion. Like the clothes we where everyday, Anne's life had been pure war for almost five years. Her nursing career had felt a calling in Afghanistan, working with the injured troops. There were times when Anne had to defend herself just like any other soldier. Her skin had become thick after such hardship; death was no longer a shock.

She sat in the corner, a latte in her hands. Her hands shake inconsistently from time to time; her therapist's just blames it on PTSD, yet Anne didn't feel depressed. She did feel endlessly nervous.

The dim lights of the shop highlighted her auburn, curly hair. Her full lips were quivering slightly, as her dark brown eyes watched the door. Anne had been hit on constantly during the war, something she dreaded. Pretty was understatement, some said. Yet, all Anne wanted was to be taken seriously and respected. It didn't take much time for the men to see her more than just a small doll. She knew how to defend herself, armed or unarmed.

Soon, Elizabeth walked into the coffee shop, drenched from the rain.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry, Anne. Damn rain gets in the way of everything", she proclaimed, sitting down rapidly.

"Its alright, Liz, don't worry about it", Anne stated, her smile illuminating the corner.

It was as if they had seen each other yesterday. In actuality, six years had passed since they had last seen each other. Elizabeth had been sent to the Sinai Peninsula as a navy doctor, and had been communicating with Anne via letters. Anne had needed this comfort.

An hour passed, talking over their lives, now dull compared to the tremulous events they had endured. Lisabeth had found a fiancée, a humble lawyer from Oxford. The topic then diverged to Anne's personal life.

"Ha, well there isn't much there. Mostly just occupied with finding a place here, getting a job at St. Bartholomew perhaps. I don't really know."

At this, Elizabeth's blue eyes grew wide.

"I have a friend who works there! We can go over there and see if anything's up! Trust me, Molly's a sweetheart. She's works in pathology, but she can give a good word for you."

"Oh Liz, I owe you my life. I need to get off my ars-, well…back. Now, I just need to get a place, and I would be golden. "

"Howard can help with that, love, but that bridge will be crossed another day. Alright then, I've got time. I think we can pay a visit to old St. Barts, how about it?"

"Bless you, Liz," Anne stated, as she hugged her dear friend. Her life wouldn't stop, she thought. She could perchance find meaning in her existence again.

* * *

A tall, broad-shouldered man laid motionless on the slap of metal in the cold observation room. Three gunshot wounds decorated his forehead, while a skid mark laid on his chest. Molly Hooper was having difficulty with this case, although the cause of death was obvious.

This case was difficult because she was trying (yet again) to impress the silver-eyed investigator, huddled over the microscope in the room parallel to hers. She didn't dare ask why he was triple-checking the material found in the burn. It seemed it was simple, but things never were what they seemed when working with Sherlock Holmes.

She watched as his hands poured a brown liquid into a flash, causing barely a reaction. Molly wasn't shocked at his frustrations become verbal.

At this, her beeper vibrated in her lab coat. The secretary was letting in her high school friend, Elizabeth Hanks. A shy smile appeared on her lips; it was always nice to see her again.

She walked out of the morgue, going toward the small waiting room on the floor. There, her friend greeted her with a kind hug.

"Molly, lovely as always! How is everything?"

"Oh, thank you. The same old, really, but everything is quite good. You look great. How's Howard?"

"Good, but a nervous wreck. That's not new, though. Oh, this is my good friend, Anne Watson. She's an experienced nurse from Afghanistan; we met before being shipped off. "

"Very nice to meet you, Miss. Hooper", Anne smiled, shaking the shy pathologists hand.

Small talk was exchanged. Molly could see a friend in Anne. The nurse was kind and respectful. She could tell she was a hard worker.

"Now, Molly, my friend here is looking for an opening here in London. I was wondering if you could see if there was anything for her…?"

"Oh, yes, I really would appreciate any position. I'm looking for anything", Anne declared.

"Hmm…I heard the second floor was looking for stand-by nurses. They needed more personnel. I'll tell ya what? I'll see if I can ask around and I'll get back to you. Is that alright?" Molly asked.

Anne's smile was truly infectious. She shook Molly's hand again.

"Thank you, Miss. Hooper. I truly appreciate it. Here's my card, if you hear of anything."

"I'll give you a call immediately th-"

The doors down the hall swung open, a loud thump echoing in the hallway. A tall, slender man was walking towards the women, focusing his attention at a small flask in his hands.

"Now, the first sample proved a negative, but that's was to be expected. It wasn't just tire, as you vehemently believed it was. It smelled of burnt rubber and strangely, lavender. So, discussing the tire, that includes all vehicles as small as the average automobile used in populated cities, such as our own Lon-"

The man stopped as soon as he saw the three women staring at him. Anne caught his eye, an almost silver color to his irises, with spots of gold splattered between the icy blue. Her hands had started shaking again.

His eyes focused on her again.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the reviews and follows! I appreciate every one. Please let me know of any comments or feedback. Thanks again!

* * *

"I-I'm sorry, what?" Anne asked, trying to register what the strange man had asked. She held on to her shaking hands, trying to hold them down. The man just stared.

"I asked Afghanistan or Iraq. That type of shaking seems arbitrary, different compared to Parkinson's or any other nerve disorder. The way you're back is positioned screams some type of military service, adding on to the PSTD shaking you have there, which can only be because of anxiety."

Anne felt naked before this man; it seemed he saw everything she was trying to hide. It was both frightening and fascinating.

"Ah…..A-Afghanistan. How did you…?"

A smile crept on his lips. It seemed he was used to these types of questions.

"Oh, um…this is my friend Elizabeth Hanks and her friend Anne Watson," Molly stated, introducing us awkwardly.

"Sherlock Holmes", the man replied. Elizabeth was about to extend her hand, but something told her otherwise. Anne smiled politely, and made sure to stand behind the two women.

"Molly, I need a detail list of all the vehicle models sold in London in the past 6-7 months. The rubber found comes from tired barely driven. Text me, yes? Perfect. "

Molly seemed dumbstruck, but nodded her head slightly. Mr. Holmes turned around, walking back down the cold hallway. Suddenly, he stopped, and turned back to face the bewildered women.

"Available tomorrow?" he asked, looking directly toward Anne.

"Yes…but what exactly are yo-"

"You're looking for a flat, and have come to here to look for potential employment. That shaking only means you've been here less than week from your discharge. You're starting from scratch, as they say. Tell me, have you found a cheap place here? Don't tell me, it's obvious you haven't. Coincidently, I have the same predicament, yet I know of a nice flat near here; the landlady is an old friend. The rent is cheap if we share. Do you mind the violin? I play averagely well, and do so occasionally when in thought. I sometimes go days without speaking, but I doubt you'll mind that."

Anne could only stare. Sherlock caught on to her uneasiness.

"Oh, don't worry about formalities. There is nothing to be weary of. I am not interested", he stated simply, looking at her fully now. Her cheeks grew scarlet with embarrassment. And anger.

Sherlock wasn't even out of breath, as Anne tried registering his words. This man was truly peculiar. She couldn't deny she felt intrigued in finding out about this flat, but the fact that her roommate could be a man made her uneasy, although it seemed his work was more important than anything. Her experience with men was almost zero, besides the soldiers she had worked with.

"I need to think this over, yes? Accommodations, rent prices, location. Furthermore, I don't really know you…" Anne stated, trying to be polite. She needed to think about this, yet the man had already thought for her.

"Fantastic then. 221B Baker Street. Tomorrow at noon", Sherlock proclaimed, turned his heal, and left for good.

A few moments of silence passed between the three women. Molly did not seem surprised.

"Well…you've met Sherlock. Don't worry about what he says, he's a bit odd. A Genius, but odd."

"Could've had me fooled. He seems loony", Elizabeth said, pruning her nose toward such a ridiculous man.

Anne, however, had fallen silent.

"Oh, don't tell me you're actually considering living with that freak!" Elizabeth asked.

"I don't really know, Liz. I don't have much of a choice. I've got nowhere."

* * *

It was still raining outside, as puddles formed outside the apartment doors of Baker Street. It was a lovely street, if it weren't pouring outside. It was a beacon of both modern and old-fashioned London. Anne stood in front of the door of the address, inspecting the building's façade. The man hadn't lied: it seemed very nice indeed.

Anne's umbrella suddenly bumped against a passerby.

"Oh, pardon me", she stated, as the tall man stood near her. Sherlock Holmes was covering his head with a newspaper, as his silver eyes were looking toward the small building.

"My taste in architecture is trustworthy, as you have seen."

"Good Morning, then. Yes…you weren't kidding. Oh, here…" Anne trailed off, offering her umbrella to the man. He shook his head without looking at her.

"No need, thank you. We are being expected."

At this, a small woman appeared at the door. A bright smile appeared on her coral lips. She had been a tremendous beauty in her younger years, Anne bet.

"Sherlock! It's been ages!", the woman proclaimed, hugging Sherlock like if she were his grandmother.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. How are the sugar levels?"

"Oh, a little high, but I've been taking that pill you suggested. My backs been a little better, though. Ah, heavens, I'm sorry dear, who is your friend?"

"The war nurse I had told you about. This is Anne Watson.", Sherlock specified, smiling genuinely for the first time.

"Very nice to meet you, Ma'am."

Anne extended a hand but Mrs. Hudson embraced her instead and welcomed her into the building.

...

A couple steps later and Anne was standing in the 221B, a large airy flat. The living room was decorated handsomely, with a Victorian wallpaper added to that side of the flat. The furnishings looked used, but in good conditions. The kitchen was small, but chic, with a large stove, table, and refrigerator. A small tellie was in the living room. The bedrooms themselves were spacious, although Anne really didn't need much space.

She walked out toward the living room, capturing pieces of Sherlock's and Mrs. Hudson's conversation. There were already piles of boxes in the middle of the space, something she had noticed on her way in. They were filled with books and ancient looking trinkets; Anne knew Sherlock had already decided to move in.

"This is really quite lovely. It seems you're a fantastic landlady" Anne asserted.

"Oh, love, you're too kind. I try. Sherlock knows I try. Here, love, the numbers."

Sherlock was too busy staring at Anne, analyzing, more than anything. He was expecting her answer soon.

"Well then, the rent is fine with me. I think I could work with this…", Anne stated, looking again around the flat. Something about this flat seemed like her past home in the countryside. She loved it already.

Sherlock was smiling that odd smirk of his again.

It didn't take too long for Anne to move into the flat. That very week she was already settled it, trying to get used to her new flat mate. She soon discovered he was a consulting detective for the police, yet Anne didn't find out directly from Sherlock. His website proved more helpful then poking him for information, as he had stated. Anne spent hours on his website, yet he still seemed an enigma.

It seemed Sherlock already knew Anne more than she knew herself. Anne felt it would be useless talking about herself.

Sherlock barely left the kitchen table; when he wasn't there, he spent hours on the couch in the oddest of positions, eyes closed, focused on the world behind his eyelids.

The kitchen table was always covered in flasks and Bunsen burners. Cooking would be a little difficult then. But that could be adjusted, Anne thought.

The first nights passed slowly.

Sherlock was at the table again, sampling tire material with certain areas in Britain where lavender is grown. Anne couldn't help but ask a few questions. This all seemed so very interesting.

As Anne tried cooking, Sherlock sat in silence, working on his experiments.

"Why exactly lavender, though? It's a common scent. Women don't usually bathe in lavender, unless it's fresh or dry. That's what I've heard of", Anne thought out loud, mixing the pasta on the stove.

Sherlock's ears picked up something interesting.

"Repeat that."

"What…? That's what I've heard of…?" Anne asked. Sherlock sighed.

"No, before. Repeat that. "

"Women don't usually bathe in lavender, unless it's fresh. Or dry."

Sherlock averted his eyes from the microscope, his blue eyes staring into Anne's.

"Why do you assume the killer's a woman?", Sherlock asked, his interest actually peaking with his flat mate. Maybe she wasn't as meek as she looked. Maybe she had more than just beauty and knowledge of anatomy in her mind.

"Well….you were saying earlier that man had been killed with a gunshot wounds to the head, right? But the killer had gone over him with a car. The killer was probably scared. It seems she really wanted to kill him with just a car, but it didn't work. So she shot him," Anne stated, mixing the chicken with basil leaves.

"Yes, the killer panicked. Continue…" Sherlock urged.

"I saw the pictures. Those bullet holes were randomly shot. The lavender traces. You're either working with a metrosexual or homosexual man…or a woman. Maybe she checked his heart rate or something, and the traces were left then."

"Traces of lavender. She had lavender or had been somewhere where it is grown or sold, yes…", Sherlock added. His mind was working overtime.

"Ah, why hadn't I seen this?! Oh this is a present! A wonderfully wrapped present."

Anne had to look around at this. He was grinning like a child on his birthday.

"Anne, thank-", Sherlock stopped, as he was about to thank Anne for her contribution. She stood near the stove, tasting the chicken.

"Yes…?"

"You aren't so simple, now aren't you?", Sherlock stated, smiling and returning to his work.

"Ha…If you'd had bothered finding out before, maybe you wouldn't be so surprised."

Sherlock's eyes shifted toward his sneering flat mate.

"You're burning the chicken." Sherlock proclaimed, not bothering to look.

"Ah-..Oh bloody hell!"

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

Thank you very much for all the followers and reviews! I appreciate all of them. Here's the new update! Don't forget to read and review! :)

* * *

Anne looked toward the stove, glancing at the disaster of a dinner before her. This was more than frustrating; was it that difficult to learn basic actions? Sure, it had been years since she cooked, but this was like starting to walk again. Step by step, Anne would have to learn ordinary every-day activities.

Her hands started shaking again. She breathed in deeply, hiding her hands in her apron and turning around to face Sherlock, busy at the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry. Guess we won't be eating anything home-cooked tonight. I'll see if I can find anything. Ill boil us some tea in the meantime."

At this, Sherlock glanced at Anne, observing her with a piercing stare.

"Were you cooking for me also?", he asked.

"Of course. I wouldn't just cook for myself. It's the least I could do while you're working." Anne stated, finding a small pot in the cabinets.

Sherlock was dissecting this information silently in his vast mind; this was entirely new.

A low vibration echoed in the flat, coming from Sherlock's coat in the living room. Anne heard this clearly, expecting him to answer the call. Yet, he stayed in the same position. The phone continued vibrating, six times in total; Anne was keeping count.

"Anne, can you pass me the mobile, please?" Sherlock asked.

Soon, she handed the small phone to Sherlock, wondering who would call so much and so desperately. Sherlock, however, didn't seem the least bit interested. That is, until he read the message.

"Oh, thank GOD. Something interesting! Now this is actually worth my time", Sherlock proclaimed, a huge grin on his face. He swiftly lifted his chair, rushing toward the living room and putting on his dark coat and navy scarf. Anne was looking at him curiously, filling the pot with water at the sink.

Sherlock was walking toward the door, deciding on what to say to Anne.

A goodbye? No, too simple. Good evening? Too cordial. This flatmate business was more difficult that he expected.

A sudden thought occurred to him, ringing in his mind. He turned around gracefully, facing Anne.

"Perhaps I would be in need of your medical history, although it is a nursing degree and perchance you aren't too qualified. However, anatomically speaking, I may need to review my physiology. Would you care to assist me in this case? I'll explain the trivial details in the taxi."

Anne tried to hide her surprise. An actual case? Would she be able to help him as he thinks she can? Could she handle any more crime and blood? Her mind was racing.

She looked toward the burnt chicken in the trash. Making a fool out of herself is not on her priority list.

"Maybe I could be of some use," Anne stated, smiling as she took of her apron, following Sherlock out of the door.

* * *

"Another murder, six blocks from here. 67 year old woman, gunshot to the chest, probably shot from less than 50 feet away, but that won't be hard to tell. One of Lestrade's better traits is that he is thorough with his texts", Sherlock explained, looking toward the street from the taxi window. Anne followed his words; she knew gunshot wounds well.

"Why would anyone murder a 67 year old woman?", Anne asked sincerely. She could never wrap her mind around innocent killings like these.

"She was either a murderer herself, an easy kill, or she was undeniably rich. Perhaps only two of the three." Sherlock stated.

The taxi stopped in front of the address, countless police cars and forensic trucks parked in front. It was a handsome apartment complex, close to the center of London. The lobby, closed off to all of the owners, looked like the inside of a mansion, its walls decorated in marble and stone. Sherlock overlooked the façade, taking in every detail he could see. Anne wasn't far behind.

"And this is where the adventure starts", Sherlock purred. Anne couldn't help but stare; he surely was beyond bizarre.

A man clad in a forensics' suit quickly approached the pair, his face wearing a look of disgust as he took in Sherlock's presence. It wasn't long until Sherlock himself wore an unpleasant look.

"You! You can't be here, there's no way in hell you're coming close, you hear me?! My men won't let you!", the man stated, crossing his arms and looking superior. The men behind him looked confused.

"Anderson, when was the last time you flossed? What, two weeks ago? That plaque on your lower incisors is as large as that ludicrous sense of authority you've falsely put on yourself."

Anderson couldn't suppress his anger and embarrassment.

"Ugh, you blundering id-"

"Break it off, girls, there's actual adult work that needs to be done here", a silver-haired man remarked, approaching the bickering duo. His face was amiable and handsome, quite the opposite compared to Anderson.

"Anderson, not now. Sherlock, third floor. I haven't let anyone touch the scene too much. But try not to go bullocks, alright? They have me on a tight leash, and you, even tighter."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed Inspector Lestrade; Anne didn't know where to go.

"Are you coming or not?", Sherlock called, barely looking at her.

"Wait, now, I can't have the press coming up here. I'm sorry, who are you, love?" Lestrade asked kindly.

"All you need to know is that she is with me and she is needed. She is not available either, and she is probably not interested", Sherlock replied. Lestrade was more than frustrated.

"Y-You're with him…?", Lestrade asked Anne directly, turning a bit red.

"Um, well yes, but not like that. I'm just here to help in what I can. Nice to meet you, Anne-", she replied, interrupting by a robust sigh.

"Alright wonderful, we're all friends here!", Sherlock sarcastically proclaimed, walking briskly toward the elevator. The nurse and the chief inspector followed close behind.

* * *

The woman's apartment was clean in every sense of the word. There wasn't a book out of order, or the remote controls misplaced on the leather coach. The kitchen looked like it came out of a catalog. The burgundy wallpaper matched perfectly with the cherry wood table. This woman had been truly rich.

"Kimberly June Edwards, 67, ex- private accountant for most of the London elite. Retired 8 years ago, living off her fortune and investments. Found dead 14 hours ago", Lestrade explained.

Kimberly laid in the stone floor of the kitchen table, looking as if she were asleep if it weren't for the dark patch of dried blood on her chest. She was wearing a coral blouse, pencil skirt, and coral heels, while her dyed blonde hair was impeccable even in death. Anne surveyed her body, feeling the piercing pain of seeing a dead human being. It always brought sadness to her heart.

Sherlock, however, was going straight to his work, bowing over the corpse and smelling different areas of her hand. He looked around the kitchen, noticing the trail of blood on the stone wall where the bullet had stained. In two minutes, Sherlock had already deduced the scene.

"The woman was running toward the home phone in the corner; there are marks of her heel two feet away from where she was killed. The shooter didn't kill at point-blank. Yet he wasn't shooting from the balcony. Possibly close to the balcony. He had different means of entering her apartment, so he must have known her schedule, mealtimes etc. Get the tapes of the surveillance camera of the alley; the organic market next door has it equipped in case of burglary."

Lestrade seemed to be used to this amount of information, nodding as he absorbed Sherlock's words. Anne was following along, but she couldn't believe his mind's actions.

"How do you even think like that? Its….ingenious", Anne whispered.

Sherlock now looked at her, surprise on his face also.

"That…is a first."

"What do you mean?" Anne asked.

"'Psychopath is usually the preferred word", Sherlock replied, a hint of gloom in his ice-colored eyes.

Before Anne could reply, he called her closer.

"Now, tell me. What do you see?" he asked, pointing toward Kimberly's corpse. She understood perfectly what he wanted her to.

Anne came closer to the body, kneeling down next to it. Lestrade handed her a pair of gloves, making the job of inspection a little more hygienic. She held out the left arm, cold against her warm touch. She also lifted the blouse, seeing the gunshot wound closely. Sherlock had been right; the gun must have been fired from a few feet. Anne had seen gunshot wounds fired from point-blank range, and this was definitely not one of them. She inspected the right arm; her eyes stopped at a light purple mark on the forearm.

"There's a bruise here, not too large, but it was probably done at the time of death. This wouldn't have taken too long to develop. Someone had gotten close to her, and she ran away. Or something like that", Anne explained.

Sherlock was smiling again; Anne knew this meant she had hit the nail on the head.

"Good, good, you observed it. Lestrade, the killer had gotten close enough to frighten her. She ran, the killer shot. A little too simple", Sherlock announced, yet continued walking toward the kitchen table near the balcony.

A large bouquet of flowers was the centerpiece of the table. Beautiful pink roses, cream camellias, and yellow daisies added a pop of extra color to the apartment. Something was lurking among the strong scents, however.

Sherlock started taking apart the bouquet with his gloved hands, placing the flowers on the table.

"It's here", he whispered under his breath. His speed increased as his nose was working frantically. Lestrade and Anne had rushed to his side.

"What?! What are you going o-"

Lestrade's thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock had stopped picking at the flowers, a look of cleverness in his eyes.

He now was holding a small sprig of lavender in his gloved hands.


	4. Chapter 4

Don't forget to R&R :)

* * *

The Inspector and the nurse were running behind him, past the lobby and into the street. Lestrade was trying to piece together everything Sherlock had said in the crime scene, making his own annotations in his mind. As he was following Sherlock toward the forensic trucks, Lestrade gave the evidence bag harboring the sprig of lavender to one of the stand by technicians. Anderson was looking on from a distance, a look of utter disappointment as 'the freak' had found another piece of evidence.

Sherlock was done with the scene; there wasn't anything left. He had everything he needed to trace the killers.

"Wait, hold on, Sherlock!", Lestrade called out to him, out of breath. Anne wasn't far behind.

"Oh it's obvious! Come on, don't tell me you are so blind?" Sherlock stated, exhausted with the blank stares.

"There isn't just one killer. There is one for every single kill; it's probable there will be one again soon. The sprig is a mark, a sort of present for us. Waving it around in our faces. They want to be traced. The man killed with the car had traces of lavender, now there was a larger amount of the flower in the vase, something ordinary senses wouldn't have noticed. The killers being female or male doesn't matter anymore. But they knew I would be here," Sherlock trailed off, looking onward toward the apartment.

"This has something to do with you?" Anne asked, following Sherlock's eyes.

"It isn't positive at this point, but it won't be very difficult to tell. Check the cameras, Lestrade, although I doubt they'll leave a trace. The rest isn't too challenging to figure out," Sherlock proclaimed, turning around and leaving the scene.

"A-Ah but…? God. This is a mess. You heard him, then." Lestrade said, talking to the investigator next to him.

"He's always like this, isn't he? This is his occupation. And he seems to…love it", Anne stated.

"I guess we all get used to it in our own time. Deep down, however, is a good man. Are you really living with him?" Lestrade asked, still dumbfounded by the fact that a handsome woman would live with the strangeness called Sherlock Holmes.

"With necessity comes flexibility," Anne said, smiling. "He's a good man, though. You're right about that."

* * *

Sherlock was waiting for Anne outside of a taxi; they were soon headed back to Baker Street. It was near 3 a.m. in the morning. Exhaustion was taking over Anne's mind. She knew she couldn't sleep however; the crime was too thought-provoking to push it aside. Although her medical knowledge had helped slightly, Anne knew she could try and help her flat mate more, as much as he needed her anyway.

"Someone's calling the shots," Sherlock said, breaking the silence in the taxi.

"Someone's above these killers? Like a head mercenary?" Anne asked.

"Perhaps. Every killer needs orders, either from himself, or someone higher. The first kill was reckless, this one was professional. There has to be a connection between the murders. "

Sherlock fell silent as he grabbed his mobile, typing rapidly. Anne's mind was also at work. Suddenly, a low growl echoed in the taxi.

Anne's cheeks grew scarlet as Sherlock's ice-colored eyes bore into her. It had been hours since she had had a meal.

A sigh escaped Sherlock's mouth.

"Leave us on the next corner", he demanded, talking to the driver.

"Where are we going?" Anne asked, watching the taxi stop at an old-style café, surprisingly open at such an hour.

"I, for one, don't need nourishment to continue my work. Perhaps I will need you in the future. I can't have that stomach interrupting my work, now can I?" Sherlock stated, opening the door of the taxi and stepping outside. Anne couldn't help smile, giving a couple bills to the driver and following Sherlock out the door.

They were soon seated in the small café near the back. A few candles illuminated their table, despite the low electrical bulbs in the lanterns above. A waitress was with them shortly.

"Now, what can I get for you two?", the short-haired waitress asked, handing both of them small menus. Sherlock shook his head. He took out his mobile, and started typing again, looking up the latest murder victim and her business. Sherlock knew they must have worked together, or maybe had had a casual business transaction. He was sure of a connection between the first kill, Adam Scottson, and the most recent kill.

"Um…Sherlock…What would you like?" Anne asked, disrupting his thoughts.

"Nothing, I'm busy. I have my card, order whatever you want," Sherlock stated, continuing his typing.

Anne faced the waitress with a casual smile.

"I will have a bowl of your soup of the day then. And some tea. He'll have the same," Anne stated, returning the menu.

"Perfect then, it'll only be a bit."

With that, the waitress left, leaving Anne and Sherlock under the candlelight.

"Ah, excuse me, I didn't WANT anything" Sherlock proclaimed, his eyes darkening. "I cannot eat while I am wo-"

"Shush! Calm the hell down. You have to eat something. Period. Any mind, no matter how brilliant, needs sustenance. Yours is no different," Anne stated, frustrated with his arrogant attitude.

"You will eat, and you will be quiet. Alright?" Anne asked, seeing Sherlock's countenance turn from furiousness to shock. No one had spoken to him like this.

He surveyed her brown eyes, but did not see arrogance, just worry. Her brow was twitching, like she usually did when she was concerned about something. It seemed he couldn't say much else.

"Fine then," Sherlock proclaimed heatedly, continuing to type on his mobile.

"Good," Anne said, smiling and forgetting her frustration.

A few awkward moments passed between them. She looked upon him as he typed, his wavy hair dancing as his hands moved. A few conversations echoed in the small café. Anne was determined to make this work.

"So there is a connection between the other man and Kimberly. Because of the lavender." Anne stated. Sherlock responded without looking at her.

"Yes, yes, yes, congratulations." Sherlock responded, trying to ignore her completely. He was already eating on the job; what else did she want?

"The next kill would probably have a larger amount of lavender at the scene. I mean, if the killer continues this whole thing. I hope to God there isn't another one…" Anne said, feeling empathy for these murders.

Sherlock was listening now.

"Yes, and where would you start looking? What is your next step?" Sherlock asked, looking straight at her. Anne hadn't noticed how small the distance was between them.

"I would try keeping an eye on every flower shop or nursery near here…?" Anne replied.

"That would be a good start, possibly…" Sherlock responded, closing his mobile and putting it in his pocket.

The waitress soon came with their meals. They ate and drank in silence, Anne looking toward the window. There was barely anyone in the street, except for a couple waiting for a cab. They were smiling like they had not a care in the world; they kissed softly, like teenagers on a summer night. Anne's left hand was shaking slightly.

"When did he sleep with her?", Sherlock asked, snapping Anne back into the world. When his words reached her ears, her heart began to ache.

"What…?"

"You have been betrayed by someone you loved very dearly. It was a few years ago, however. Probably before you went to Afghanistan. The way you looked at that man and woman only screams heartbreak, and strangely, an edge of happiness for them. Is that why you try so hard to be a decent human being? Is it because you haven't seen much good yourself?

Sherlock asked, not knowing the consequences of his words on Anne's heart. She was holding back what her body was responding: tears and screaming.

Instead, she controlled her emotions.

"It was my fiancée of five years. With my high school best friend. Caught them in bed one night after a long shift at a hospital. And that was it." Anne responded.

"Ah. Close enough."

"And you…? Have you seen enough intelligence in a woman, or man, for that matter, for you to love?" Anne asked. Sherlock's eyes bore into hers.

"There is no one on this earth who could interest me enough. I am and never will be interested in a relationship of that nature. My work is what was given to me, and I will continue it until I can."

Anne looked down at her half empty cup of tea.

"Maybe you're right, Sherlock. Maybe it isn't worth it. But I still have hope."

Anne smiled at him; her eyes were a mix of pain and undeniably hopefulness. He couldn't deny they were beautiful, in a peculiar way.

The waitress came over, interrupting their conversation.

"I'll get these out of your way then, " the waitress said, clearing the table. However, she came back quickly.

"And this is from that gentleman over there. Enjoy!"

A small slice of cheesecake was placed in front of the duo. A raspberry crème topped the cake, looking delicious in the candlelight. Something wasn't right, nevertheless. A folded note was placed under the plate.

Both Anne and Sherlock looked toward the corner; it was empty.

"Don't touch it," Sherlock commanded.

Using a napkin to avoid his fingerprints, Sherlock gently opened the note, reading it carefully. He then laid it open for Anne to see.

_I am a fan of true love, itself. _

_Don't lose sight of that hope, Miss Watson. _

_Take notes, dear Sherlock._

_-M_


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for all the follows and reviews. I would also like to apologize for the long wait; I havent had too much time to write lately. Please read and review! More reviews equals faster updates. :)

Much love.

* * *

The note was transported to Lestrade and his unit. Anderson was in charge of the research, much to Sherlock's chagrin. No fingerprints were found on the note, of course. The writer was a professional.

Sherlock spent days observing the note himself, going over every letter and curve. The writer had obviously been close enough to hear their conversation, yet had sat far away from them. The waitress had also been a subject of examination, but soon, the idea of her being tied to the writer was scratched out. She had only been an innocent messenger.

The note was left in a cabinet of evidence after it was declared useless; Sherlock didn't give up on it, however. After much negotiation, Lestrade let Mr. Holmes collect it for further investigations. Every night, Sherlock stood over the note, examining it in different lights and microscopes. Anne watched from a distance, knowing she couldn't say much to distract him from the piece of paper that now seemed to intrigue him more than any other case.

Anne cooked for him as best as she could. She would place the dish next to him at the table; Sherlock was usually focused at his work, but when Anne returned, the dish would be empty.

There were times they spoke for hours, however. Usually Anne was the one who spoke, but Sherlock listened well. They would discuss different smaller cases handed to Sherlock or perhaps Anne's view on the world.

Sherlock found her strangely intriguing; Anne cherished their conversations.

The note, however, was never forgotten.

On one Tuesday night, Anne was trying a hobby she hadn't touched in years: her art. She barely drew during her time at war, but she found herself idle in the small flat. Slowly she started sketching the wallpaper, and the wooden furniture.

Anne looked at the paper; it wasn't much of an improvement, but it seemed her right hand hadn't forgetting her old skill.

She looked toward her flatmate, still in his sleepwear. He was fervently writing down notes on his pocketbook. Anne stood up and walked toward him, looking over his writing.

"You'll sprain your hand if you continue writing so harshly", Anne stated.

"My limbs can take whatever I make them do, and right now, the numbness helps," Sherlock responded.

A sigh escaped Anne's dark coral lips.

"Anything new? Or of any significance?"

"Something interesting, however. The past two murders had been investors for a private shipping company 4 years ago. Shipping overseas, private, rich. They knew each other cordially. Yet, they had tried to fund a new company with another partner... "

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the paper toward another one; it was a contract, with three signatures on the bottom of the fine page. He handed it gently to Anne.

"Two out of three: murdered. The last one? Still alive: Herald K. Smith. But the name is an alias. Already searched the entire damn country. I've alerted Lestrade, but of course, nothing. We trace him, we can stop the next murder. It won't be long until he's targeted. The problem is finding him. Does the killer have a motive? Money, hate, envy, debt, GOD. "

His silver eyes darted from paper, tracing a name similar, backwards, or translated. It seemed all traces of the next victim turned to dust. Anne stared at the back of his curls, trying to get into his mind. She truly wished she was as clever as him; perhaps then she could help him.

"You need sleep, Sherlock," Anne stated kindly.

"I will sleep when the work is finished. Is the work finished? No, if you haven't noticed, it hasn't even started", Sherlock responded frustratingly.

Anne couldn't help feel hurt and useless at the same time. The detective detected the awkward silence in the air. He now looked at Anne; he couldn't deny his chest felt heavy as he saw sadness in her eyes.

"I…ahem. Soon. Ill fall asleep soon." Sherlock said, his words feeling foreign even to him. But the words were a success; Anne smiled her usual bright grin.

"You better. I'll know if you don't. Goodnight then, Sherlock."

Anne said her goodbye, putting her hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a faint second before leaving the room.

He noticed a strange warmness where her hand had been.

* * *

Months passed, and the note sat on the flat's desk in the corner, perfectly placed in an evidence bag. Sherlock would study it on occasion, but new cases emerged in his life. The police had left the Lavender case open, yet it wasn't ever looked upon. It seemed that the killer had done his work, and was never found. Many officers and investigators left the dirty work to Mr. Holmes.

Anne had received a phone call from Molly; she had been blessed with a position as an on-call nurse at St. Bartholomew's. Although she worked whenever the staff needed her, Anne was beyond thrilled to be back in the workplace. She missed it like it was her long lost home.

But when she returned to her flat, her roommate was usually there, peering over his laptop, looking for an 'actual challenging case' to explore. If the hospital was her long lost home, this place was her life.

It was getting close to winter; Christmas would be around the corner. The nights were getting chilly. Anne would arrive late in the night after a long shift; Sherlock knew when she had returned because of the strong smell of disinfectant, latex and her distinct rose perfume in the air. He would make sure to have a cup of tea ready for her when she walked in. Sherlock didn't know what prompted this ritual, but the sigh of relaxation coming from Anne when she sipped the tea made him feel tranquil.

...

It was Saturday evening. Sherlock had recently solved a robbery investigation for Lestrade.

Quite a shocker, Sherlock thought sarcastically. His work had gotten boring recently; petty killings were nothing for the genius detective.

He was taking his usual taxi back to Baker Street, his mind running on useless thoughts. Sherlock would check his blog again for any new requests, and later perhaps, eat something. He hadn't eaten in fourteen hours, but that wasn't something he wasn't used to.

Sherlock opened the door, finding the flat empty. He didn't need to look; he always knew. He took a few steps into the apartment, smelling the air of the room. The tall man's mind throbbed in thought, his pupils dilating as his heart rate increased steadily.

Cheap two dollar cologne. Nicotine. Beer. Leather. Aftershave. Bread.

And Blood.

His eyes surveyed the apartment quickly, as his mind was going into automatic; the place hadn't been touch. Everything was in order, even the mess of papers on the desks and couch.

He walked toward his laptop; his hand touched the top, still warm.

Someone had been here.

The laptop was opened, starting up quickly. Sherlock could hear his vein pulsing near his ear.

A note had been opened on his desktop.

Parking Lot 4, Waulkin Offices, 30 minutes. A minute late, and her blood will run.

A small smudge of a red liquid had been put on the screen of the computer. The smell of rose accompanied the smell of blood.

The air was left thick with a fury only Anne's safety could calm.


End file.
